The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Charissa Dufour

  “You’re awake,” stated the knight.

  Bethany had no way to refute the fact. He climbed off the stool and knelt in the pile of straw. With surprisingly gentle fingers, the knight pulled her arm from its resting place above her head and began to unwind the stained bandaging.

  Though the wound had bled through the cloth, the bleeding seemed to have slowed considerably. He dabbed some sticky, clear liquid on the wound that bubbled and fizzed before winding fresh bandaging around her hand. Just as he finished, Sir Kerwin entered with two steaming bowls.

  He tossed one onto Bethany’s stomach, half the contents sloshing over the sides and burning her skin through the blankets. The other he handed to Sir Caldry.

  “I could watch her… iffen you’d like a break,” offered Kerwin, his voice thick with some suppressed emotion as he fingered his wide, leather belt.

  Bethany glanced up, her burning stomach suddenly forgotten. The ugly man’s murky eyes were bright with excitement.

  “You will go nowhere near the prince’s slave,” murmured Caldry, his voice soft, but deadly.

  Bethany watched the older man’s excitement cool into dread and fear. He nodded quickly and scurried away. Bethany fumbled with the bowl, trying to manage the task of eating with the wrong hand.

  By the time the knight finished his serving, she had barely managed to take a few bites. With another sigh, he knelt down, took the bowl from her, and began spooning the thick stew into her mouth. Bethany stared at him with wide, frightened eyes as he fed her until her small serving was finished. He even went as far as scraping the bits of potato off the blanket and into her mouth.

  “Why?” she asked after quickly swallowing.

  She couldn’t help, but ask the burning question. The knight had spent a great deal of his time making her life a living hell. What had changed?

  “Kerwin was right. Being a favorite of the prince’s, if you were to die while under our care, the prince would have our heads. And I prefer my head attached to my body,” he explained without humor.

  The knight was dead serious. He did all this only to save his own neck.

  “Tomorrow you will replace the cook so that she can go into the river and cut reeds. Surely you can cook one handed.”

  “I don’t know how to cook, one handed or otherwise.” Bethany bit down on her tongue.

  Why had she said that? It sounded more like a princess than a slave. Sir Caldry glared down at her, his cheeks turning a dark shade of red which caused his scar to stand out.

  “What do you mean you don’t know how to cook? How can a woman not know how to cook?”

  Bethany glanced around, racking her brain for a plausible excuse, but nothing came to her.

  “Did your seamstress mother never teach you to cook?” he scoffed.

  “I-uh… I had other sisters to cook. My mother always had me sewing.”

  The knight glared down at her for a moment before nodding.

  “Fine. You’ll help the cook and do anything else needed around the camp site.”

  Chapter Nine

  Cal watched the pretty slave girl as she drifted back to sleep under the two dirty blankets, now covered with drying soup. Though he did not want to return the prince’s slave any more damaged, he didn’t want her lying about all day. The sooner they got the withies and reeds collected for the queen’s upcoming banquet, the sooner they could go home.

  He and Sir Kerwin had been the unfortunate two to suffer the queen’s wrath just before the trip, and therefore sent to keep control over the rowdy guards. Without him, each female slave would have been returned carrying the seed of a guard. And this girl—Ann, was it?—would have been dead. The last thing the castle needed was ten pregnant slaves. He had already had to punish one of the men for an attempt at such behavior. The women, on the other hand, were behaving perfectly; all of them except the pretty one lying in the straw.

  No, that wasn’t fair. Though he knew her to be a wily and crafty sort, Cal knew there was no way for her to plan on getting bitten by a snake. Besides, the look of terror in her eyes when he began to suck the poison from her wound suggested that the idea of death was quite new to her.

  Maybe her craftiness was the very reason Cal had seen the prince eyeing her. No, that was simply due to her pretty face, and Lynette’s sudden absence. The king’s—and prince’s—mistress had suddenly found herself too busy to visit the youngest of her lovers. Cal had noticed a new rage-filled energy in his prince.

  Féderic needed a new mistress, the knight thought as he watched Ann sleep.

  On rare occasions, Cal had seen Ann after a thorough cleaning. Her brown hair, when clean and combed, framed her face in gentle waves and made her stormy blue eyes stand out. However, he had only seen her to such advantage once or twice; the rest of the time her hair was dirty and matted, her face smeared with grime, and her dress fitting in awkward ways as though she wished to hide her figure, or what portion of her figure that had survived the starvation of slavery.

  Ann took secrecy to a whole new level, he thought as he shifted on the stool.

  Each slave had their own views on sharing about their past. Most of them didn’t share simply because they didn’t want to think about better times, or at least that’s how Cal had acted when he had been a slave. But something about this girl suggested more. Small things about her made her stand out. She walked with a unique grace, especially when she thought no one was watching, and occasionally spoke with an elegance much like the queen’s cadence. Though she claimed to be the daughter of a seamstress, her sewing was of a quality that surprised even the ladies at court. And why couldn’t she cook?

  All in all, Cal was beginning to wonder exactly who she had once been. Was she the daughter of a lord, lost to the growing slave trade? Sir Caldry mulled it over as he waited for the others to complete their work and the sun to finish setting.

  The next morning Bethany was set to helping the cook as best she could. After a few hours of tripping and spilling, she was summarily dismissed by the older woman, who had been hired from the village for the trip. Bethany glanced around the camp site, looking for something to do that would make her look busy. On a whim, she went into the tent and began dragging the guard’s bedrolls out into the morning sun.

  “What are you doing?” asked the knight in a mildly curious voice.

  Bethany dropped her eyes to the ground as she said, “I thought you’d wish your bedding to be aired out.”

  “Why aren’t you helping the cook?”

  “She does not wish for my help.”

  “That drat girl’ll be the death of me!” the cook barked, having heard their private exchange

  “When you’ve finished, start gathering up the reeds thrown up on the banks by the others,” ordered Sir Caldry

  Bethany glanced towards the section of river where the women were working and noticed the beginnings of piles forming near each worker. That would be easy work too. A few minutes later she had all the men’s bedding rolled out onto the damp grass in spaces that would remain sunny for a few more hours. She walked to the river and began gathering the tossed reeds, which she added to their already large stock spread out to dry a few yards away from the tent.

  By afternoon, Bethany had decided the snake bite was a blessing. She had never enjoyed such a relaxing day since being sold into slavery—the sun warm, the work easy, and her stomach only slightly empty. Though the other women glared at her as she passed, she quickly learned to ignore them, much as she had ignored her older brothers.

  As evening drew on and she became more tired, a scheme began to form in her mind. The pile of gathered withies and reeds, quickly drying in the summer sun, would certainly burn easily. The lack of reeds to make baskets and the sweet smelling withies for bedding would cause havoc for the queen’s banquet.

  But Bethany didn’t want to burn the withies. No doubt such disruption would either bring the wrath of the knight and guards down upon them or send them home immediately. Most likely a comb
ination of the two. Besides, how could she light it on fire without getting caught? Also, would it really be that problematic for the queen if she were to burn their stores?

  Bethany stopped her slow tread back from the pile. She was making excuses, reasoning herself out of what she knew she ought to do. When she first arrived at the castle, Bethany had sworn to do anything in her power to cause problems for the king and queen, even if her efforts were no more than a pin prick.

  But for the first time since her captivity began, Bethany was enjoying herself. It almost felt like the easy days of her previous life, when she’d had nothing to worry about beyond what dress to wear and how to please her strict mother. It would be so easy to simply to continue her assigned task and return to the castle in the good graces of the knight.

  Bethany glanced up at the hard man, standing near the large tent. A few other Aardê guards stood near him, chatting about something that clearly didn't interest the knight.

  No. The good graces of the knight were not worth the scant comfort she felt now, under the warm sun. She had made a promise to herself and for once in her life she would keep her promise. In that moment, the princess resolved to burn the pile that very night.

  When the sun finally set, Bethany was put to cleaning up the cooking area. It was slow work with only one fully functioning hand, and by the time she finished most of the camp was fast asleep. Bethany carefully lifted one of the partially burned logs from the fire and snuck towards the wide, flat pile of reeds and withies. Once there, she quickly stuffed the glowing log under the pile and darted away.

  Bethany rounded the edge of the tent, her eyes still darting over her shoulder in an effort to see the withies catch fire, when she collided with a solid chest. She didn’t need to look up to know that it was the scarred knight. She smelled the specific scent that was Sir Caldry—leather, horse, steel, and chilies, oddly enough.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I needed to relieve myself,” she said without thinking.

  The knight’s eyes darted towards the area designated for such activity—in the opposite direction from where she had emerged.

  Before he could call her on the obvious lie, a cry rang out across the camp. Bethany cringed as it was echoed by others. “Fire! Fire!” they were shouting.

  Sir Caldry frowned down at her, his brow creasing and his scar puckering as realization hit.

  “What have you done?” he hissed. “Foolish girl! Get that put out,” he added to the men and women passing them.

  Her plan had only half worked. It's not much good destroying the queen's withies if you get caught. Bethany swallowed a growing lump in her throat while her stomach began to turn with worry. What would the scarred knight do to her?

  Chapter Ten

  While the others dealt with the blazing pile of reeds, Sir Caldry dragged Bethany to the banks of the river.

  “Get to work,” he ordered as he tossed her one of the dull knives the slaves used.

  “But my hand,” Bethany whined before she could stop herself.

  The knight struck her with the back of his hand, the cuff of his chain mail shirt cutting into her cheek. She fell backwards into the water, her bandaged hand sinking into the mud. Bethany knew the cut would become infected by the grime.

  “You will work until you have replaced the damage you’ve done.”

  Bethany stared at him, shocked that this was his chosen form of punishment. In some ways, it was far worse than a beating or a whipping which only lasted a few minutes. She didn’t think she had the strength to stay up all night. She had never gone without sleep before, much less in a river full of poisonous snakes. She stared at him until he stepped forward, his hand raised for another strike.

  The princess quickly bent to the work and began whacking off reeds as quickly as she could. How could she possibly replace all the supplies she’d burned? Did he mean to have her do it all by herself, or would the other women return to work in the morning? When would he let her rest?

  The knight sent one of the guards for a whip, a stool, and his blanket. He settled down, wrapped in the warmth of his wool blanket, and watched her work, never showing the slightest sign of exhaustion.

  Slowly, but surely, her injured hand began to throb. The small of her back started to ache, but each time she stopped to stretch it out, the knight would rise to his feet and threaten her with the whip. A few hours into the ordeal, Bethany felt hot liquid run down her cheeks without even realizing she was crying.

  Later, as the night grew colder, she became numb, not just in body, but in mind also. The rhythmic swishing of her blade against the reeds, occasionally interrupted when she tossed a handful onto the bank, had dulled her mind until she couldn’t think or regret.

  Eventually, when she thought she would fall over and drown, too tired to battle the shallow water, the sky began to grow pink and the rest of the camp began to stir. Bethany glanced at the knight. He looked tired, but alert enough to notice her hesitation. She resumed her work, hoping soon he would let her rest. She had learned her lesson—don’t get caught!

  A short time later, the guards and slaves emerged from the tent, consumed their breakfast of crusty bread and hard cheese, and descended on the river. One of the guards approached Sir Caldry, while the others herded the women back into the river. The other slaves were glaring at her, their eyes throwing poisonous darts in her direction. Bethany took a few steps away from where they worked, wanting to keep as much distance between them as she could.

  Sir Caldry stood, stretched, and tossed his blanket on the stool.

  “Sir, should we feed her?” asked the guard.

  Sir Kerwin joined their small conference. Caldry glanced in her direction, and Bethany forced her aching body to speed up.

  “No. She can eat dinner with the rest. Until then, she continues to work. I’m going to sleep. Don’t wake me unless you have to.”

  With that, the knight gathered up his blanket and left. Sir Kerwin took up his position on the vacated stool and watched her with laughter in his eyes. No doubt the old trouble maker enjoyed her current predicament.

  Bethany took this moment to glance around the valley. She had cleared nearly ten feet of river bank. Though not a record, no one could say she had slacked off during the night. Still, to replace all she had burned before returning home on the scheduled day, they would all have to work extra hours each day.

  When the light began to fade that evening, Bethany could barely stand. She had tripped more times than she could count, and only the fear of drowning kept her on her feet. At the sound of the dinner gong—which came nearly four hours after their usual breaking time—Bethany crawled out of the river and climbed to her feet. Her back screamed and cramped as she stood up straight. Bethany bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying, the injudicious movement reopening the cut on her lip. She followed the others to the camp fire, too tired to notice their caustic mutterings.

  Bethany collapsed by the fire, her bowl of stew in her hands. She inhaled her food, flopped over onto her side, and fell asleep.

  It could have been a lifetime or maybe just a few minutes, before she was roughly woken by a swift jab in the back. She groaned and swatted at the offending boot without thinking about the consequences. The jab turned into a firm kick. Bethany sat up, blinking the tears from her eyes. Sir Caldry stood over her, his eyes bright with rest and anger.

  “Back to work,” he ordered.

  Bethany glanced around the fire. The others were making their way back into the tent, looking exhausted from their extra-long day of work. When Bethany continued to sit on the ground, staring at the others, the knight brought the heavy whip down upon her shoulder. She cried out in pain and scrambled to her feet before he could repeat the blow.

  She re-entered the cold river and warmed her face with fresh tears.

  The next morning Bethany was blistered from the knife handle, frozen from the frigid river water, and bleeding from the numerous lash marks she had rec
eived when she failed to maintain a decent pace. In the end though, the stores had been restocked, perhaps not as generously as they might have been, but enough to keep the queen happy.

  Bethany dragged herself out of the river to help the others load their supplies into the wagon. Of course, with the addition of all the reeds and withies, the slaves would be required to walk back to the castle. Bethany thought walking sounded both wonderful and horrible: Wonderful because it wasn’t bending over, horrible because she couldn’t remember how.

  Shortly after the sun had climbed high enough to be visible over the tall peaks, they began the uphill climb back to the castle. Though the going was slower on the return journey, Bethany trailed behind the others. Near the end of the day, when she was beginning to trip over her own feet, the knight turned his large steed around and trotted to the back of the line.

  “What’s the hold up?” he asked the two guards, who were walking behind Bethany.

  “Sir, this one. She can barely walk.”

  “I’m about to break my arm with checking my horse,” added Kerwin, who had remained in the back with the trailing guards; his large warhorse tossed his head and sidestepped in anticipation of a faster pace.

  Bethany wasn’t listening to them. It took all her concentration just to navigate a course over the roots of a particularly large tree. In the end, she tripped over the last one, stumbled, and landed in a pile of dust. She didn’t try to move.

  Bethany had once seen a messenger horse pushed to the point of collapsing. It had been covered in white, foaming sweat and struggled to breath. No matter how the messenger beat it, it wouldn’t move. Bethany imagined she knew how that horse felt.

  “Get her up here,” snapped the scarred knight.

  Before she knew what was happening, the two guards hoisted her to her feet and dragged her to where the knight’s mighty destrier stood, stomping the ground in its impatience to be off. Sir Caldry reached down, took her arm and pulled her up onto his saddle. Bethany moaned as she melted against his warm chest. The knight wrapped a strong arm around her back and kicked his horse into a trot. The process sped up.